


Red Meat

by BigBoyParty



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: (Slower than usual for me lol), Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Cooking, Food Play, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hand Jobs, Infection, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Nasty Little Freaky Jisung, Non-Consensual Kissing, Obsession, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Personal Chef Minho, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Sexual Harassment, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Spit As Lube, Suicide, Voyeurism, Woundfucking (kinda), Wounds, horror(ish), rotting food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBoyParty/pseuds/BigBoyParty
Summary: Settling onto the bed, Jisung held the bowl up to his nose and smelled it. The potatoes were cooling fast, but they still smelled delicious, just like everything Minho cooked for him. They were perfect. He plunged three fingers into the bowl and spread the potatoes across his tongue. Jisung shimmied his underwear down his hips...-Jisung loves his personal chef Minho. He's the perfect man, and Jisung can't help staring at him when he's cooking. Or eating. Or doing anything. And he would do anything to get his chef's attention.Minho just wants to be left alone, at first.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 21
Kudos: 106





	Red Meat

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm sure you read the warnings but just in case: this fic is Gross! It's not intended to be any sort of behavior anyone should model, in my mind it's more like psychological horror. There are graphic descriptions of an infected wound throughout the story, and a suicide on the final page. Please read at your own risk and don't be afraid to click away if ur not here for it. 
> 
> If you're up for everything but the suicide, stop reading around the text from Jisung's mother. I hope u enjoy!

Minho was sweating.

“Can’t you just make ramen again?” 

He flipped the lamp chops on the grill. They were expensive, Jisung’s parents had paid for them, plus the absurd number of herbs and fancy vinegar on the meat. Organic, fair-trade garlic in the mashed potatoes and every seasoning the most expensive on the shelf.

“You can’t just eat ramen every day. Your parents hired me to cook.”

Minho removed the lamb from the heat, fast. Always fast, like they taught him in culinary school. Like his mother showed him. Though sometimes Jisung tried to get him to slow down, peering over his shoulder as if he was enchanted by Minho boiling water, or heating butter in a pan. Jisung always stood too fucking close, breathing down Minho’s neck and begging him to explain every step of the recipe.

“Yeah but isn’t it hard always cooking something fancy? Don't you ever just like, waant to make something easier?”

Minho frowned. He scooped the mashed potatoes onto the plate, arranging a couple lamb chops on top, and slid it all onto the table. “Come eat,” he shouted, hearing Jisung drop his controller in the other room and come padding over.

“What is this?” Jisung asked, sliding into a stool at the kitchen island, tucking his socked feet underneath him.

“Lamb chops and mashed potatoes.”

“Oooh, fancy.”

“Just eat it.”

Minho hated when Jisung made a fuss about things being fancy. He was rich, so rich his parents could afford to have him homeschooled and hire him a personal chef. They had spent months searching before finally settling on Minho, a recent graduate from the two-year culinary school nearby, because they wanted someone close to Jisung’s age. They thought it would be nice for the now 18 year old boy to have a friend. Like, a real one, who he didn’t just shout slurs at while playing video games online. 

They were so rich, they had a perfect kitchen. One of those Rich Person Kitchens, with 3 ovens, two sinks, and one of those indoor grill ranges, not to mention the money they could spend on ingredients. Minho was hired to cook for Jisung, and he did, but in reality he was cooking for himself. He could spend hours in the foodstore every week, riding on the back of his shopping cart and buying fresh cuts of lamb, expensive produce, and cheeses with names he couldn’t pronounce. He bought spices from the top shelf, condiments with gilded lids and descriptions like “organic” and “natural” which he knew didn’t really mean anything but a higher price tag. If it complied to Jisung’s long list of food allergies and restrictions, Minho bought it, and he bought it all on the family credit card.

“You eat it with your hands.” 

“Oh.” Jisung dropped his fork and knife carelessly on the table, splattering the table top with chopped herbs and vinegar. Jisung was a mess. He grabbed the lamb chop by its rib and tore away some meat, smearing his face with grease. Minho raised his own cut to his mouth, trying to ignore how Jisung stared directly at him, and took a polite bite.

It was perfect. The meat was so hot it nearly burned his tongue, gamey and greasy and round. The vinegar and herbs brightened it, complementing the dull rush of grease which spread across his tongue as his teeth snapped through meat and tendon. Minho was quick to catch the thin drip of grease which ran down his chin, unlike Jisung, whose face was absolutely ruined with grease and herbs. Even when he switched to the fork to eat his potatoes, Jisung still managed to let some collect at the corners of his mouth.

“You have food on your face.” Jisung licked his lips, still blatantly staring at the chef.

“You wanna come wipe it off?” Minho cleared his throat.

“Don't be gross. Just use a napkin.” Jisung shrugged and kept eating, his eyes still trained on the irritated Minho.

It would be one thing if Jisung was just messy, but Jisung was gross in other ways too. Jisung was a creep. He sat around in his sweatpants all day, quietly completing some worksheets before switching on his PS4 and spending hours immersed in his games. He left dirty cups and garbage everywhere. His skin was always breaking out, and sometimes Minho caught him picking at it and eating the little scabs that fell off. But the worst thing of all was the staring. It seemed like any time Minho turned away from his cooking to briefly glance at the boy, Jisung’s eyes were locked on him. And he didn’t look away. Minho had tested it a few times, staring right back at him and slowly growing more annoyed, but it was never shame which pulled Jisung’s gaze off of Minho. It was always just something in his game. It made Minho absolutely furious.

Sometimes, it seemed like making Minho furious was Jisung’s goal. Minho remembered one of the first days there, when Jisung had called one of the enemies in his game a “fag” and Minho reprimanded him,

“You shouldn’t say that.” Jisung had scoffed, scratching his balls and remaining focused on the screen.

“Why, are you gay?” There was a long, tense silence, before Minho conceded,

“You just shouldn’t.”

“Whatever fag,” Jisung had responded, wheeling around in-game and landing another headshot.

Now, Minho practically lived with his teeth gritted. He scrubbed dishes furiously, claiming that he could get him cleaner than one of the house’s three top-of-the-line dishwashers. Truthfully, he found it cathartic, blasting music in his headphones while he removed whatever burnt shit he had left at the bottom of a pan. He didn’t acknowledge Jisung when the younger boy slid up next to him and took a bowl of extra mashed potatoes to his room, as he so often did.

“What are you staring at?” Minho barked when Jisung took longer than usual. As always, Jisung failed to look away.

“Nothing.” He shrugged, taking his leftovers to his bedroom and leaving Minho to scrub at the dishes.

Jisung stepped softly up the stairs, cradling the bowl of leftover mashed potatoes close to his body. Flicking the light on in his room, he set the bowl down among a graveyard of half-eaten leftovers. His room smelled like old food, as always, so he cracked the window a little and peeled off his t-shirt and sweatpants, flopping down on his bed in his underwear. Jisung loved his room. He had a tv up here, with his old xbox plugged in (he kept the newer consoles downstairs), and his own private bathroom. He used to spend all his time up here, until the chef came. 

Minho. Jisung loved him. He was near his own age, but more beautiful than any 21 year old Jisung had ever seen. Jisung could spend hours staring at his smooth skin, the veins in his neck and arms which bulged whenever Jisung stared at him too long or said something he didn’t like. He found himself acting differently around him, blushing and staring and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Jisung was used to being easily excited, but now he was practically hard all the time. He would clench his thighs together under the table, watching the way Minho’s adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. Sometimes, while Minho was cooking, he would sit on the couch and palm himself cautiously under a blanket.

Settling onto the bed, Jisung held the bowl up to his nose and smelled it. The potatoes were cooling fast, but they still smelled delicious, just like everything Minho cooked for him. They were perfect. He plunged three fingers into the bowl and spread the potatoes across his tongue. A little cold, but still good. Jisung shimmied his underwear down his hips, his cock already growing hard as he ate the mashed potatoes and thought fondly of his personal chef. He thought about Minho’s strong arms, how they would feel gripping his waist or narrow hips and pinning him back against the mattress. He licked the bowl and thought about running his tongue over the smattering of acne on Minho’s jaw. 

Jisung flopped onto his back, kicking off his briefs and sucking the mashed potatoes desperately from his fingertips. He wrapped one potato-coated hand around his cock and struggled to restrain a whine, his hips bucking up into his fist. Minho’s food was perfect. His mind conjured images of Minho chewing, his throat bulging as he swallowed. He pictured Minho feeding him, one hand roughly tugging his hair while Minho shoved food down his throat until he gagged and whined. The potatoes felt grainy and sticky against the sensitive skin of his cock, but he liked them better knowing they were Minho’s. Jisung let himself get desperate fast, whining and smearing a glob of food across his chest, playing with his nipples. He closed his eyes and pictured Minho’s hands around his throat. So strong. Minho banging his head back against the wall until all he could think about was his personal chef.

Jisung rolled onto his side. He tried to shove his cock fully into the bowl, not even minding when the tip rubbed harshly against the porcelain bottom. He smeared the food between his legs, forcing one finger into his ass. He didn’t care that it hurt. Jisung imagined that hurt was the pain of Minho’s cock splitting him open. He wondered how big Minho must be. He had only seen other dicks in porn, eternally insecure that he was too small, not knowing what an average cock even was. Jisung forced another finger inside himself, sobbing and moaning, spreading himself open for Minho. Minho must be huge. He must be perfect, whatever perfect even meant in bed. 

Jisung brought his other hand to his mouth again, coming to his knees so fast his vision blacked while he savored the saltiness of his own precum mixing into the mashed potatoes. He flopped onto his face, throwing his own body around just how he imagined Minho would. He fucked desperately into the cold mashed potatoes, stretching his fingers out as far as his inexperienced body would allow. It wasn’t far, but it hurt like hell and made Jisung’s eyes roll. He pictured Minho’s hands over his mouth, over his nostrils, covering his whole face so the older male wouldn’t even have to look at him. Minho shouldn’t have to look at him. Minho should suffocate him and fuck his passed-out body. Jisung thought Minho should use him however he wanted. He curled his fingers inside of himself, scraping out his insides and biting down on his sheets. Minho Minho Minho.

When Jisung came, he aimed it into the bowl of leftovers and left it on his bedside table with the rest of his half-eaten (half-fucked) leftover food. He sucked on his fingers waiting for the shower to heat up. His drain clogged easily.

Downstairs, Minho had finally finished washing the dishes and straightening up around the living room and kitchen. Minho didn’t like being stuck with the 18 year old, but there were benefits to Jisung’s parents being gone on business trips nearly all the time. This is what he told himself as he sat on the couch downing his third glass of expensive wine. He flipped between true crime shows on netflix, scrolling through his phone and slowly slipping into the kind of fuzzy drunkenness he liked to enjoy. 

This was how he spent most nights. After his cat died, he didn’t feel particularly compelled to return to his shitty one-bedroom apartment. Currently he was in the process of moving all his shit into his car, so he wouldn’t have to make this month’s rent. Not that he wasn’t paid enough to, it just seemed like a waste to not be saving up. It was a beautiful home anyway, even with Jisung’s eyes staring out at him from behind every corner, and the parents never minded him crashing on the couch or in one of three guest bedrooms. Sometimes he cycled between them, always finding the sheets softer than any he had slept on in his own home.

Minho’s stomach shifted. It must have been a few hours since dinner, and the wine clouded his judgement just enough for him not to care what food he put in his mouth. He flicked off the tv and went rooting through the cabinets for a package of Jisung’s ramen (always weird flavors). Minho stumbled a little on his way to the stovetop, socks drunkenly sliding on the meticulously-polished tile floor. He hoped Jisung wasn’t sleeping, he knew he was being pretty loud finding a clean pot and as much as the kid pissed him off, he didn’t really deserve to be disturbed. He was young, anyway. Probably undersocialized growing up in a house like this.

Minho filled up another glass and downed it quickly, waiting for the water to boil.

“I thought you didn’t like ramen?” Minho startled, spilling a little of his wine.

“Jesus christ, Jisung.”

“Sorry.” The younger man padded across the floor, his damp feet sticking a little on the tiles. His hair was still wet, lanky black streaks sticking to his forehead, “Are you drinking wine again?” Jisung always stood too close. Minho could feel his beady eyes burning the back of his neck.

“Yep.”

“Can I have some?”

“Maybe when you’re 21.”

“Oh come on.” Jisung reached for the glass where it stood on the countertop, and Minho was quick to snatch it away, knocking the contents back with one gulp. Jisung frowned, “I know other 18 year olds drink!”

“Other 18 year olds aren’t getting paid to cook for you.” Minho sucked back some snot and dug around for a spoon. Jisung stared at him. Minho stirred the water furiously, letting the cube of dried noodles bang against the sides of the pot. He could still feel Jisung staring at him, and he willed the drunk flush out of his cheeks. If he could, he would will himself out of existence whenever this kid was around.

Suddenly, Jisung reached out and pressed his palm against the side of the pot, holding it there until the smell of burning skin seeped into the air.

“JESUS CHRIST!” Minho grabbed the 18 year-old’s wrist, pulling it away from the burning metal, “What the fuck are you doing? You’re gonna hurt yourself!” Minho’s eyes were wide and panicked, but when he looked at Jisung he found the younger man didn’t look nearly as pained as he probably should be. Instead, he was glancing down at his wrist, then back at Minho’s face with a little smile. “Are you kidding me,” Minho dragged Jisung to the sink, forcing his hand under cold water while he shouted at him, “Your parents are going to fucking kill me if they see this!”

Minho couldn’t see it, but Jisung was getting hard in his underwear already. He had never been this close to the older man. He could practically smell him. Jisung didn’t fight back, but twisted his wrist a little just to feel Minho’s grasp tighten on his skin. 

“God that looks terrible,” Minho grumbled, pulling back Jisung’s thumb so he could look at his deep-red palm. Jisung held his breath. “Why would you do that?” Jisung shrugged,

“I dunno.” The way Minho was holding him, the two men were face to face. Jisung studied the way Minho’s brow furrowed, the way he squinted furiously.

“I’m too fucking drunk for this.” Minho released Jisung’s hand and returned to his ramen, which was now close to boiling over.

Jisung’s heart was pounding. He kept his hand under the water- it did ease the pain a little -and watched Minho cook. The veins on Minho’s forearms bulged deliciously when he stirred the noodles. Jisung’s eyes trained on the delicate curve of Minho’s upper lip. He wanted to feel it against his own, the way he kissed his hands smeared with Minho’s food at night. He tried to hang onto Minho’s smell, the one he had barely picked up when they were closer together, the faint tint of wine on his breath. Jisung snuck one hand under the counter and began to feel himself up under the underwear. Softly, slowly, his burnt skin puffing up under the stream of cold water, Jisung pressed his body forward against the counter and moved against his hand. 

He was hard, even after jerking off so recently, even stiffer in Minho’s presence. He watched Minho’s eyes, focused so intensely on the water as if he was trying not to acknowledge Jisung’s presence. Jisung watched Minho lick his lips, and couldn’t resist slipping his hand past the band of his underwear. He began jerking himself off quickly, watching the steam off the pot congeal and drip down Minho’s perfect skin. Minho shut the water off suddenly, still stirring, and grabbed a bowl.

“You can probably shut the water off now,” the chef stated quietly, dumping the pot carelessly into a bowl. A moment passed with no response from Jisung. Minho set the pot back down on the stove. Another moment passed, the water rushing. Jisung was breathing oddly loud. Minho glanced at him and froze.

Jisung froze too. His eyes on Minho, hand gripped tight around his cock.

Minho’s eyes combed over Jisung. Gross little Jisung, the guy he was being paid too fucking much to cook for. Minho opened his mouth, then closed it. Hesitantly, Jisung’s hand moved up the length of his cock. Minho was so angry he could barely fucking think.

“What the FUCK are you doing?” Minho approached Jisung, still stumbling a little, breathing faster when he saw Jisung’s hand speed up on his cock. Minho didn’t care about the water anymore, it only underscored the blood rushing in his ears. He cornered Jisung back against the counter, face to face, and grabbed his wrist tight, ripping it away from Jisung’s crotch. Jisung was still staring at him. Those stupid beady eyes. “Don't Fucking Look At Me,” Minho spat.

So Jisung didn’t. Just like that, he cast his eyes aside, breathing fast and heavy. He was blushing. He stood practically crucified, his left hand practically forgotten about in the water, his right in Minho’s grasp. He could feel the counter’s edge pressing into his lower back. “God, what the fuck is wrong with you.” Minho felt the blood in his ears, “Is this why you stare at me all the time, you fucking creep?”

Jisung didn’t say anything. He tilted his head down and nodded slowly.

“Oh my fucking god.” Minho reached down, his body moving faster than his brain was, and grabbed Jisung’s dick. He gripped it tightly, digging in with his fingernails, and twisted. If he had it in him, he would have ripped the damn thing off. But Minho didn’t have it in him. He let go the minute he saw Jisung’s eyes flutter and felt precum leaking onto his hand. “Go back to your room.”

Minho listened to his footsteps pounding up the stairs. He stared at the ramen. Nothing had ever looked less appetizing to him. He didn’t sleep well that night.

The burn on Jisung’s hand blistered. It blistered bad, little pockets of skin bubbling up all over his palm. He picked at it when Minho wasn’t looking. When he was alone, hiding upstairs with another bowl of leftover pasta or rice or whatever Minho had made that night, he would pick apart the blemishes. He’d hold his skin between his teeth and rip the hand away, feeling the blister tear open with a jolt of pain. Sometimes they seeped fluids when he tore them like this, and the taste made his eyes roll. This was for Minho. Perfect Minho. He wrapped his injured fist around his cock and twisted it the way Minho had that night.

Minho had made what he thought was the smart decision and utterly ignored the incident that night. He still cooked, enduring Jisung’s stare, still washed dishes and drank wine at night. Sometimes, when he drank too much, the memory came back to him with a bitter taste in his mouth and a weird stirring in his gut. Jisung was obsessed with him. Minho knew he was, he saw the way he blushed now when Minho met his gaze for too long. Sometimes, now, when Minho stared at him, Jisung would look away, and Minho would feel oddly triumphant.

One night he drunkenly got a few mouthfuls of expensive cheese from the fridge and stumbled upstairs, planning to take a bath, when he found the dark hallway flooded with light. Jisung had left his door open. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Usually Minho would pass through the sounds of bed springs squeaking and heavy breathing quickly, his gaze averted, but tonight he paused. For some reason, Minho stood still, just far enough in front of the doorway to gaze in on Jisung.

The boy was naked. He kneeled, his back arched slightly. In front of him sat another bowl of leftovers, risotto from dinner, and the food was smeared haphazardly across his body. There was a lot of it between his legs, pale and clumping. He had one fist around his cock, stroking rapidly, smearing it with the risotto. His left hand was raised to his face. Eyes rolling back, mouth wide open. Jisung’s lips were smeared with blood and risotto. Jisung’s tongue slipped out and traced flat over the broken blisters on his palm. Minho could see the risotto on his tongue, chunks of it mixing with the pus and blood from his wounds. Jisung’s eyes fluttered, then drifted. They met Minho’s. Minho was paralyzed. He watched Jisung’s eyebrows twitch, his hips shuddering as he grabbed his cock and twisted.

Minho exchanged the bath for a long, cold shower.

The next day, Minho munched on a bagel and did everything in his power to convince himself what he had seen was some kind of dream. The dishes stacked up in Jisung’s room, the smell of rancid food. The blood on Jisung’s face, his skin breaking between his teeth. Minho shivered. It was too strange. Minho wouldn’t dare remember the way he fucked into his own fist that night, shivering and disgusted in the shower, thinking of the boy’s lips.

Minho pan-fried pork belly that night, the oil cracking and shimmering loud enough to drown out his incessant thinking. He had spent most of the day cleaning around the house, as he so often did, hoping that some in-depth vacuuming and scrubbing of the kitchen tiles would be enough to burn the smell of Jisung’s room from his nostrils. The chemicals had burned his hands a little. They were raw and red, still peeling a little no matter how much fancy lotion he doused them in.

“What are you making?” There was Jisung again. Of course. He was being more social again, perhaps emboldened by the encounter last night.

“Pork belly.” Jisung stepped closer to Minho, and their arms brushed a little. Minho felt his breath shake a little. He flipped the meat in the wok, half to ensure even cooking and half to move away from Jisung. The boy resorted to picking at the beloved wound on his hand, tearing away the frayed bits of skin at the edges of his scabs.

Minho glanced over. Jisung’s picking was oddly mesmerizing, two dirty fingernails clenching at the torn skin and pulling it away. His hand looked like a battle zone. Parts of the blisters were deep red, going much deeper than they would if he had just left them alone. There were some minor pale areas, souped with pus, and the skin from his fingertips to his wrist was an angry shade of red. “You shouldn’t pick at that so much,” Miho scolded, “It’s going to get infected.”

Instantly, Jisung pulled his hand away and let it fall limp by his side. Minho glanced up at him, and their eyes met. There were a few seconds of silence, not many, but enough for Minho’s heartbeat to crescendo into a wild pounding in his ears. Minho remembered Jisung’s lips, smeared with blood and pus.

A piece of pork belly crackled aggressively in the pan, and Minho turned away. “It’ll be done in like 15 minutes, go play your games.”

Jisung got a glass of water and left the kitchen, brushing Minho’s back on the way out.

Tonight, Minho drank wine with his dinner. It just made things easier lately. He slapped a couple bowls on the table, with rice, vegetables, and pork belly arranged too perfectly inside. Jisung watched him take the first bite, those perfect lips closing around the silverware. Jisung loved the way Minho loved to eat, the way he chewed slowly and shut his eyes if it was really good. Jisung wanted to lean across the table and eat the food right out of his chef’s perfect mouth. Instead, he gripped his fork with one hand, letting the injured one rest in his lap, and ate too.

Minho drank too much wine with his dinner. Jisung kept nudging his feet under the table, so he kept getting up to fill his glass. He knew Jisung was just eating, but he couldn’t trust him with one hand in his lap like that. Every motion of Jisung’s arm sent him thinking about the boy jerking off right in front of him. After the past few nights, he was reconsidering every time he’d glanced over at the boy and seen him shifting under his blanket, and now he couldn’t even sit at the table without his skin crawling.

The drunker Minho got, the more his eyes darkened. He even stayed at the table after he had finished eating, leaning back in his chair and sipping red wine while Jisung scraped the final grains of rice out of his bowl.

“There aren’t any leftovers tonight.” Minho spoke with his eyes trained on Jisung’s bowl. He had the smoothest voice, especially when he drank. Jisung just nodded and clenched his fist in his lap, relishing the sting. “What,” Minho barked, “Not feeling talkative?” Jisung met Minho’s eyes. They were mean, mean in the way that made Jisung harden in his sweatpants.

“What do you want to talk about?” Suddenly, Minho kicked the leg of Jisung’s chair, hard enough to scoot the younger back a few inches. Jisung gasped, and Minho laughed, loud and discordant.

“God,” was all he said at first. Minho licked his teeth. He was drinking way too much. Jisung was staring at him wide-eyed, like he was some kind of celebrity. “You really like me don't you?” Jisung didn’t respond, just nodded and licked his lips. Minho continued, “I’ll tell you what, go do the dishes and I’ll give you a kiss.”

The speed with which Jisung left the table was shocking. He picked up the bowls, whisking them away to the kitchen, and Minho followed. He hopped up on the island and sat, cross legged, watching Jisung. It was a nice change of pace.

Jisung sucked at washing dishes. He just never really had to before. He got water everywhere, and the dish soap burned like hell when it met his injured hand. He should have worn gloves, but he didn’t know where they were and was too scared of ruining the moment to ask. He tried to work quickly, water sloshing everywhere, Minho’s mean gaze burning into his neck. He was hard, so hard, his mind carding desperately through the observations of Minho’s lips he had made before. Soft, delicate, curved, pointed. He wondered how they tasted. He wondered how it would feel.

When Jisung finished, he turned and stood in place, wiping his burned hand on the front of his sweatpants and smearing them with blood. Minho just watched him. Jisung could stand there all day staring at him, but a promise was a promise, so he stepped a little closer, “I’m done.”

Minho hopped down from the island.

He walked to the sink and surveyed Jisung’s work. It was a sloppy job, but the dishes were clean. Truthfully, Minho was too drunk to care about how much water the younger had spilled, but god it felt good to put on the show. He turned back to Jisung, complimenting him, “Good work.” Jisung let out a little squeak and clenched his burned hand. Minho looked so tall up close like this, so broad.

Jisung looked utterly pathetic. Minho remembered the blood on his tongue last night and took the younger’s injured hand in his. He spread the palm out and watched blood spring up from points scattered around the burn, rubbed fresh from the dishwashing. In the corner of his eye, he could see the tent in Jisung’s pants, but he decided to ignore this. Instead, he lifted Jisung’s hand up and pressed the palm against the younger’s lips. Jisung looked good with his mouth covered. He stood perfectly still, staring up at Minho while the elder rubbed the injury across his lips, leaving behind a thin smear of blood. It wasn’t much, but it made the prospect of kissing Jisung a little more appetizing.

Minho pulled Jisung in by the hair and kissed him. Thin lips, bad breath, too much teeth. Minho tried not to revel too much in the taste of Jisung’s blood.

Jisung’s heart was going crazy. He could have sworn it was skipping beats, really skipping them, doubling and tripling up in his ears as the elder’s wine soaked tongue pushed slightly against his lips. He was paralyzed. Minho was perfect, and he wanted to be perfect for him. Jisung dug his fingernails into the burn on his palm, trying to restrain his desperate little whines. He kept his eyes open, drinking in the texture of Minho’s skin and the tiny movements of his eyelids. Minho put one hand on his back, pressing firmly, and slowly slid it down. Jisung pressed desperately against him. He bit on Minho’s lower lip. The chef’s hand slid up under the back of his shirt and briefly pressed them front-to-front, hips together.

With a full-body shudder, Jisung moaned against Minho’s lips and came in his pants.

“Go to your room.”

The thing about infected wounds is that when they itch, they don't stop hurting. The sting doesn’t just go away when you satisfy the urge to scratch them. In fact, Jisung figured they hurt more. They ached. His hand was becoming too many colors, especially since the kiss. He couldn’t help fussing with it, every time he tore into the injury he remembered the taste of Minho’s tongue and the smell of his skin. Some nights, he would wrap the hand around his cock, burn and all, and rub himself raw until his dick was smeared with blood and pus and cum. Before he showered, Jisung would often wipe the palm across his face and lick his lips. This is how Minho liked him, and he had to be perfect.

Maybe if he had left it alone, the burn would have healed fairly easily, but now there was no chance.

Minho spent another day or two ignoring him, enjoying the moderately better behavior he received from Jisung. Now, when he told the younger man to back off, he did. Minho even noticed Jisung blushing when he was particularly stern about it. Poor kid, he was whipped. When he was sober, which he had resolved to be for at least a few nights, Minho felt like the same person. He cooked, washed dishes, and ignored Jisung screaming at his video games. The kiss had made things easier, but he knew it wasn’t right. When he remembered Jisung’s taste, Minho always shuddered. He wouldn’t think about when Jisung came in his pants, or how warm Jisung’s back had felt under his hand, all rough with hormonal acne.

As much as he could without drinking, Minho kept his mind blank of memories. He nearly always had the tv (the one Jisung didn’t use for gaming) on loud, watching whatever true crime series he impulsively chose for the night. When Jisung strolled through with blood and pus streaked across his face, he ignored him – even when the younger man stood stock still next to the tv and stared at him. Minho wouldn’t make a mistake like that again. Jisung was gross, for one, not to mention how his parents would likely fire Minho the second they heard of anything like that happening. 

When Minho climbed into bed at night, he wouldn’t dare think of Jisung’s sharp teeth or the foul taste of his blood. He pulled up the most excessive hardcore porn he could find and blasted it through his headphones, hoping it would wipe out the boy’s image from his mind. Sometimes it worked, but usually Jisung’s beady eyes still snuck in somewhere during Minho’s climax, and he wound up imagining the younger man bending underneath him.

Jisung didn’t know why Minho was being so cold. He wasn’t even mean like he used to be, he would just stare off at the tv or his phone now. Jisung tried everything he could to get his attention, wiping the blood and pus across his face just like Minho liked and standing right in his line of sight, but Minho never said a word. He never even paused in front of Jisung’s door, which he always left open while jerking off. He was doing everything he could. Wasn’t he enough for him? Clearly Minho had liked him that night, had he forgotten his taste?

After another night of smearing food all over his body and gasping out Minho’s name, Jisung came up with an idea. Maybe Minho just needed a reminder. Jisung barely dried himself off after the shower, letting the water dripping from his hair leave a trail behind him as he wandered down the hallway.

Minho looked perfect when he was sleeping.

Jisung carefully ensured the door didn’t creak too much when he opened it. The light from the hall was dim, just enough to highlight the peaks of Minho’s brows, nose, and lips. Jisung didn’t need much of an opening to slip inside. Staring down at Minho’s peaceful face, Jisung tore into the injury on his hand, like always. It seemed to hurt a little more every time he did it.

Jisung stood naked, silhouetted in the doorway, gnawing at his hand. He tore away a few scabs and kept tearing, past the edges of his burn, until the blood pumped fresh down his arm. Perfect. He had to be perfect. 

Jisung’s footsteps were light across the carpet, leaving wet indentations behind him. He held his hand gently over Minho’s face, moving slowly, so careful not to disturb the older man. When his torn palm brushed against Minho’s lips, Jisung held his breath. He swiped his hand across the bottom half of Minho’s face, smearing him with blood. Minho didn’t even shift in his sleep. Subconsciously, he even licked his lips a little. Cute.

Jisung trembled. He wiped the hand over his own face too, all over him, pressing it to his chest afterwards to keep the blood from dripping too much onto the carpet. He didn’t often get to be this close to Minho, and he didn’t want to ruin a moment of it. At first, he only leaned in slowly, smelling Minho’s skin from the visible side of his neck. He smelled rich, probably didn’t shower before falling asleep. Jisung liked him even better like this. It wasn’t easy to make out in the darkness, but if he stared long enough at Minho’s neck he could see the hairs raised slightly, a vein pulsing just under that beautiful patch of acne on his jaw. Minho needed to shave, his jaw was rough with stubble. Jisung spent a long time admiring that. He himself couldn’t grow facial hair, though he hacked at his face with a razor sometimes just to feel like a man. Minho clearly didn’t need to trick himself into feeling like a man. From one side of his perfect lips, drool spilled out and mixed with Jisung’s blood.

Jisung couldn’t hold back too much longer. He inched forward slowly and brought their lips together. Perfect perfect perfect. Jisung exploded in the silence.

He sucked gently on Minho’s bottom lip, cleaning it of his infected blood. When Jisung rolled it gently between his teeth, he could feel the raw line where Minho had nervously bitten away at his inner lip. Jisung struggled to contain his moans. He let himself pull away briefly, studying Minho’s face to ensure he wasn’t waking up. Minho was pristinely still, so Jisung went further. He pressed his tongue to the edge of Minho’s lips, and gently traced it over Minho’s cheek and jaw. He lapped at his own blood like a lazy dog, letting himself pause to feel Minho’s stubble against his tongue. Jisung thought he could spend hours like this. He wanted to note every single pore on Minho’s perfect face.

When Jisung finally pulled away, he saw Minho’s eyes flutter. His heart pounded, but the moment was brief. Minho’s eyes opened, but they weren’t seeing yet, and he rolled onto his stomach with a tired little grunt, like it was just another restless night. Jisung couldn’t resist smelling the back of his neck one more time, planting another little kiss before retreating to his bedroom. He even paused to pick up a discarded piece of Minho’s underwear on the way out. It was a success. There was no way Minho would ignore him now.

Jisung wrapped his wound in Minho’s dirty underwear and slept more soundly than he had in weeks.

When Minho awakened, he was frustrated by another early-morning headache. The sun through his window was obscenely bright, and he buried his head under the covers with an angry grunt. He thought drinking less would ensure he didn’t wake up like this anymore, but here he was: exhausted, aching, and just generally dissatisfied. He had the faintest memory of a dream from the night before. Someone’s lips against his own, soft, and a hazy smell of rotten food. Blood, again. It wasn’t the first night Minho had dreamt about the taste of Jisung’s blood, but the memory was fresher than usual. He felt haunted by it.

When Minho finally sat up, letting out a frustrated huff, he found himself picking at his face. He wished he didn’t drool so much in his sleep, it always left him feeling gross, but that’s what morning showers were good for. As he grabbed some clothes for the new day and padded to the bathroom across the hall, Minho walked right past the little bloodstains on his carpet. 

Minho stumbled into the bathroom, threw his clothes haphazardly on the floor, and turned the shower on. He glanced in the mirror. Something in his stomach sank. Minho took a clean towel out of the linen closet before looking at the mirror again. There was something wrong with his face. A few dried spots of red on his upper lip, and more drool than he was used to. His stomach sank further.

When Minho was a child, he had his appendix removed. They warned him about the scar, but for months after the surgery he was convinced there was something wrong with it. It looked wrong, with an angle just a little steeper than what he’d been prepared for. As a child, his brain ran wild with this. He would call his parents into his room late at night, sobbing and saying that “something was wrong,” “They didn’t do it right,” “They put something inside of me.” He was convinced. Eventually, his parents couldn’t think of what to tell him anymore, and left him to cry quietly in his bed, thinking of all the horrible things the doctors must have done while he was knocked out. 

Minho’s brain had always gone to dark places when he was unsure of something. He washed his face in the sink, afraid of what might happen if he stared too long at the red stains in his reflection. The shower was brief and too cold for thinking, water spiraling off the long scar on his hip.

Jisung had to see a doctor. He looked pale sitting across from Minho during lunch, the wound on his hand larger than the elder had remembered and practically foaming with pus.

“You should really go to the doctor for that.” Minho tried to speak calmly, flinching near-imperceptibly as he tried to wipe the memories of Jisung’s taste from his mind. Jisung stopped picking at his wound and looked up at Minho with wide eyes. “It’s definitely infected.”

“I’ll be okay.” Both men stared at the wound.

“Jisung, it’s practically green.”

“I’ll be fine. It’ll heal.” Minho shook his head, poking his food around on his plate,

“It won’t if you don't get it looked at.” Jisung clenched his fork. “I can drive you if you want, I just think-”

“Please don't make me.”

Jisung and Minho stared at each other for a long moment. Jisung’s eyelids fluttered.

“It’s okay if you’re a little nervous-” Minho had more to say, but he stopped talking when Jisung pushed his seat back and climbed out of it slowly. Jisung slid around the side of the table, dropping to his knees beside Minho.

“Please don't make me.” Jisung placed his hands on Minho’s knees. The left one was all red, smearing fluids on his jeans. The fingertips of his right one were stained red too, shreds of skin under his fingernails.

“Jisung.”

Minho was paralyzed. He watched Jisung bring his left hand to his face and smear himself with pus. There was less fresh blood now, just yellowish liquid and dead tissue sloughing off. Jisung looked so small, kneeling between Minho’s legs and looking up at him with big eyes.

“Please don't make me.” Jisung’s voice trembled. His skin looked slick in the light. He ran his hands up Minho’s thighs, leaving continuous tracks of fluid, and Minho broke.

His hands twisted in Jisungs hair, too harshly, bringing tears to the younger’s eyes as he forced their lips together. Fuck. Jisung was disgusting. Minho could smell the infection in the fluid all over his face. He bit Jisung’s bottom lip, hard, and grabbed the wrist of his injured hand. 

“Please, Minho.” God this was such a fucking mistake.

“Shut up.” 

Minho pressed Jisung’s hand against his crotch, pushing down way too hard, grinding up against his palm until he broke the skin and saw red staining the fabric. Jisung whined pathetically into his mouth. The younger man was doing too much with his tongue, his breath hot and foul in Minho’s face. He was inexperienced. This was a mistake, it was fucked up, but Minho couldn’t stop himself from spitting in Jisung’s mouth and forcing Jisung’s wounded hand down the front of his pants. 

When he felt Jisung’s fingers wrap around his cock, Minho broke the kiss. He let the younger man fall to his knees, unzipping his pants and shimmying them down his hips so he could watch Jisung squeeze the injured fist around his cock. It felt crazy, bits of infected tissue breaking off and smearing over his skin. Jisung’s flesh was hot and wet around him, and Minho didn’t want to think about how good Jisung’s pained little whimpers sounded to his ears.

“Minho,” Jisung whispered, like a prayer, and Minho wanted to beat him over the head. How dare he sound like that. How dare he make Minho feel so fucking disgusting.

“Shut the fuck up.” Minho wrapped his hand around Jisung’s own, gripping him so tight his knuckles turned white. He made Jisung jerk him off fast, clenching so he knew it would hurt. So that the yellow fluid mixed with blood, lots of it, coating his dick in red. When Minho finally met Jisung’s eyes, he saw that they were brimming with tears. It shouldn’t have turned it on the way it did.

“Open your fucking mouth.”

Jisung jerked Minho off fast and dropped his head back to catch the elder’s cum. Another perfect meal.

After Minho came, Jisung was sternly dismissed to his room again. It was frustrating being apart from his chef, but Jisung knew that he had done well. Minho wanted to taste him again. It had worked, and Jisung held Minho’s cum in his cheeks so he could swallow it slowly while humping the pillows on his bed. He’d never tasted anyone’s cum but his own, but he figured Minho’s was perfect. It slid down his throat hot and stuck to the inside of his teeth. Jisung figured he could survive off a diet of only Minho’s cum and he’d be happy.

Minho had a cold shower and wine. Lots of it.

What the fuck was wrong with him? He was normal. He knew he was. He was a good cook, he had graduated at the top of his class in culinary school, and professors always complimented his work ethic. What would they think if they knew he was fucking his client? What if that client was freshly 18, with poor hygiene and poor judgement and weird habits? What would they think if they knew about the wound? 

God, that fucking wound. Minho should have taken him to urgent care the second he burned himself. That was part of his job anyway, and it wasn’t like he didn’t get paid enough to deal with the co-pay. But Minho was angry and freaked out and now he was stuck on the couch, thinking about Jisung’s stupid thin lips and big eyes and the putrid smell of his burn wound growing slowly more and more infected.

Minho made a note to himself to give Jisung some of the antibiotics he had been prescribed a couple years ago for cystic acne. They must have been somewhere in his car. He forgot this note almost immediately when he passed out drunk on the couch.

When Jisung woke up the next morning, his hand was numb from the wrist down. 

Minho woke up with another pounding headache. He wandered from the couch to the kitchen and drank a glass of water. He was absolutely shocked by how refreshing it was, and drank another one. Three glasses of water later, Minho was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He nearly choked. Jisung was standing right behind him, in a t-shirt and underwear. He looked so small. Minho sunk in on himself.

“What?”

Jisung shrugged. He held his left hand out and Minho took it, spreading the palm. The wound was all grey and foamy at the center, the edges raised and white, and the skin expanding out from it darkening strangely, nearly black. It smelled oddly sweet, even though Minho held it far from his face. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” Jisung shifted strangely, “Do you think it’s pretty?”

Fuck. Jisung was practically shaking, breathing fast. He looked sick. What was wrong with Minho? Why did he get so excited seeing the younger like this?

“We should put something on this.”

Jisung let the elder lead him through the house, pinching the numb back of his hand and watching him root through drawers. It felt nice. Minho was taking care of him, like he always did. Minho was so smart. Jisung wanted to stay with him forever. 

“Here.” They had stopped in one of the bathrooms upstairs, across the hall from his father’s study. Jisung sat on the toilet where Minho directed him and looked up at the older man. “Give me your hand.” Minho looked godlike in his sweatpants and wrinkled black shirt from the night before. Jisung couldn’t stop staring at him, thinking about the cock he had gripped so tightly last night. When Minho grabbed Jisung’s injured hand, he couldn’t feel it, but something about the sight of Minho’s skin on his still sent his heart stirring.

Minho was no doctor, but he knew Jisung had an infection and he knew Neosporin was made for that kind of thing. He laid it on thick, dabbing gently when smearing made the ointment pick up chunks of tissue at the edges of Jisung’s wound. Minho found himself oddly mesmerized by the injury yet again, studying the scaliness of Jisung’s skin around the edges of his infection.

“You think it’s pretty, don't you?” Jisung murmured. Minho looked down at him, and Jisung stared back up. After a long silence, Minho answered,

“Yes. I think it’s very pretty.” He brought Jisung’s hand to his lips and kissed it, softly, right on the center of his soupy palm.

Jisung couldn’t feel anything, but he moaned anyway. He whined sweet under his breath and pressed the palm further against Minho’s face, wiping away the ointment across Minho’s perfectly arched upper lips. He watched Minho smile, slight, a little uncomfortable, and moved his hand over Minho’s rough cheek. Jisung watched his skin slough off, but he wasn’t bothered. Nothing hurt him anymore. He wanted to lick the chunks of dead tissue right off Minho’s face.

And then Minho was leaning into him, and then they were kissing. 

Jisung smelled like rotten food and dying flesh, but he was soft and smooth under Minho’s hands and that was enough for him. He wanted it anyway, Minho figured, infection or not. Why hold back anymore. Why bother.

Jisung’s eyes fluttered. Minho pushed him back against the porcelain tank of the toilet, and he moaned softly. Minho’s smooth hands pressed against his stomach, cold up under his shirt, running down over the front of his underwear to squeeze him between the legs. His perfect chef. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

“Minho,” Jisung was breathless.

“What baby?”  _ Baby.  _ Certainly Jisung had died and gone to heaven.

“I want to be pretty for you. I want you to use me.”

Fuck it.

Minho’s mental capacities were weakened at this point, overtaken by Jisung’s sweet little voice and the taste of his infection, so he didn’t bother speaking. He hooked his arms under the younger’s thighs and picked him up, surprised with how light Jisung was. Jisung linked arms behind his back, burying his face in the elder’s neck and inhaling like he had never smelled anything sweeter on earth. Minho took Jisung to his bedroom, ignoring the food that slowly decomposed around them, and laid him down on the bed.

Already, Jisung’s hand had gone to his mouth. Now that it was numb, he couldn’t really tell how hard he was biting, but he knew it had to be perfect for Minho. He dragged his teeth through the film of antibiotic cream, catching the edges of his skin and widening the injury. Dead skin, infected skin, healthy skin, Jisung didn’t discriminate, he just tore. He tore away at his palm watching Minho pull off his t-shirt, eyes soaking up every errant blemish and the patchy, thin hair on Minho’s lower stomach. 

Minho climbed on top of him. The younger looked so small underneath him, so sweet and desperate and warm. He grabbed Jisung’s wrist and gently pulled the younger’s hand away from his mouth. It was torn to hell. Minho held the hand up and placed his tongue at the bottom of Jisung’s forearm, catching a little rivulet of blood and following its path up to Jisung’s palm. The burn wound smelled fucking putrid, but something inside of Minho couldn’t stop. He ran his tongue over the injury, tasting the blood and infection, balancing somewhere between nausea and an impossible arousal. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, and with Jisung looking up at him so sweetly he almost didn’t care anymore. Minho pressed Jisung’s palm flat against his face and ground down against the younger man, inhaling deeply.

It was the most beautiful sight Jisung had ever seen. Everything he had thought before felt so different now that Minho was really on top of him, the older man’s weight pushing him back into the bed. Minho ground down on him and Jisung let his hips buck and shudder back. His cock was already hardening, making a little stain on the front of his grey boxer-briefs. He was moaning Minho’s name again, like he always did, but now Minho was swallowing up the moans with a kiss. Now Minho’s face was soaked with his blood, and Jisung could suck his infection off the elder’s bottom lip, smearing hands down his back. 

Minho peeled Jisung’s shirt off, letting his hands grip the younger’s waist, thumbs digging into his soft stomach. Jisung squirmed underneath him and Minho wanted to clench him so tightly his skin would burst and every filthy drop of Jisung would flow out around his grasp. He felt Jisung’s hands pushing down his back, grabbing needily at his ass, the flesh of his infected hand squishing and leaving its trail all over Minho’s skin. He buried his face into Jisung’s neck, inhaling the rotten food smell in his sheets, and bit down hard. The yelp Jisung let out was delicious. Minho moved to Jisung’s shoulder, biting until he was certain the skin would break, and Jisung whined and moaned and pushed up against him. 

Minho’s hand moved into Jisung’s underwear, pulling him close and pressing one finger against his hole. Jisung shuddered and wound his legs around Minho’s, letting the elder grind against him, crushing him. Jisung wanted to be crushed. He wanted Minho to destroy him.

“Minho,” he whimpered again, grunting softly when Minho’s finger forced its way into his ass. It hurt. He knew it would.

The chef didn’t respond. He was too focused on the way Jisung moved underneath him, the little tears at the corners of his eyes when Minho forced his finger in deeper. He knew he should use lube, it wasn’t his first time, but something about the way Jisung twisted and whined when he hurt made him never want to stop. He wanted to tear Jisung apart, and he knew Jisung would let him. Minho knew he could get away with anything when Jisung was underneath him.

“Turn around,” Minho murmured against Jisung’s lips, earning himself a little shudder from the younger. Jisung did as he was told, anything for Minho. Everything.

Jisung’s back was a narrow tan channel in the cum-stained bed sheets. He let his arms rest at either side of his body, his right hand healthy with dried red on the fingertips, the left one’s shades of red, grey, and yellow creeping up the forearm. Minho sat on Jisung’s thighs and pressed his hands to the younger man’s back, feeling the heat radiating off of his skin. Jisung felt feverish. Minho dragged his nails down his back, pressing hard, feeling the younger’s acne break under his fingertips and smearing trails of his blood. He hooked his fingers in Jisung’s waistband and pulled his underwear down, spitting on the younger’s ass and forcing his finger inside.

Minho opened him up aggressively, obsessed with the sight of his fingers disappearing into Jisung’s tight little hole. He could see Jisung shaking, could hear him sobbing and feel the way he’d grind his hips forwards against the mattress. Minho wondered if he would cum just from his fingers inside. Minho wondered if Jisung would bleed.

Jisung bit down on his pillowcase. He had fingered himself rougher than Minho was right now, but somehow it was so much more shocking when someone else was in control. Minho slapped his ass and Jisung cried out, high and wavering. He reached back and spread himself open, delighting in the sound of Minho’s scoff. His numb hand couldn’t quite get purchase, but he tried to grab at himself anyway and hoped it looked good enough.

“Look at you,” Mimho muttered under his breath. He pulled his fingers out and spat on Jisung again, “You want me don't you?”

“Yes,” Jisung shuddered, arching his back and hiding his face in the pillow.

“Good.” Jisung moaned, and Minho wasn’t even touching him yet.

And then Minho was shifting and breathing low through his teeth, and Jisung was spreading his legs out, and Minho was running his cock over Jisung’s hole and pressing slowly, slowly inside. Jisung let out absurd noises. It felt like everything he had expected and nothing he could have imagined all at once. Minho was touching somewhere he’d never let someone touch before, and he was touching it completely, stretching it out around his girth. Jisung didn’t even get a chance to see how big Minho’s cock was, but he didn’t care now. Minho was perfect.

“Fuck.” Minho’s legs shook when he bottomed out in Jisung, the younger’s hole clenching tight around him. He took hold of Jisung’s hips, holding him still as he slid in and out slowly, watching himself disappear.

Minho had never fucked someone without a condom before. Minho had never fucked someone this much younger than him before. Minho had never fucked a client, or the son of a client, face-down in his dirty cum-stained sheets. Minho let his body fall on top of Jisung’s and bit down hard on his shoulder, pinning him into the bed and digging his teeth in until Jisung squealed. He didn’t know why Jisung drove him crazy like this, but he did, pus smearing tracks over both of their bodies and the smell of rotten food in their nostrils.

If someone had been watching through Jisung’s perpetually open door, they would have seen the smaller boy laying flat on the bed, his face buried in his pillows. They would have seen Minho jackhammering into him, Jisung’s hole sore and red and starting to leave traces of blood over Minho’s cock. They would have seen Jisung’s right hand gripping the sheets and his left one, ruined by injury, pressed up against Minho’s face. 

But no one saw any of this, because no one was watching. In that moment, Minho and Jisung were the only two people on earth, and he never wanted it to end.

“Where do you want it?” Minho grunted, nuzzling into the back of Jisung’s neck and smelling his adolescent sweat.

“Inside me.” Jisung let his arm flop to his side when Minho dropped it. Now his right hand was a little numb too, and his toes curling in pleasure or pain. Jisung didn’t differentiate anymore.

“Jisung-” Minho knew he shouldn’t. He hadn’t been tested in a while and Jisung was so young, but Jisung was quick to argue back.

“Please Minho, I need you inside me. I don't want it to end. I need it, I need it Minho. Fuck please please please don't stop-”

Minho planted one hand on the back of Jisung’s head and shoved his face into the pillows, cutting off his breathing and that high incessant whine of him babbling on. He shouldn’t do this. Minho bit his bottom lip and tasted Jisung’s sweet blood. He shouldn’t do this. Minho pulled Jisung’s hair and bottomed out inside of him, his cock twitching visibly when he filled the younger up with cum.

When Minho lost his virginity, it was at age 20 with a man 15 years his senior. He had a steady job and close cut hair and asked about Minho’s scar before they fucked. After the man came over Minho’s back, he’d told him to clean himself off, get dressed, and leave. Minho knew how much it hurt to be peeled off and thrown aside like that, but now his boss’s son was shifting and breathing underneath him, and his mind was clearing, and he felt so unbelievably Guilty. He looked at Jisung’s sweaty-acne dotted back, and the lines in his cheek from pressing it into the pillows too hard, and his hand, mangled almost beyond the point of recognition. Minho climbed off of him, out of bed, and gathered his clothes from the floor.

“Wait,” Jisung rolled onto his back, sitting halfway up with his legs spread wide and cum pooling underneath him, “Please don't go.” Jisung trailed two fingers through the small puddle of cum leaking from his hole and popped them in his mouth experimentally. He looked so small.

So Minho came back, because he wasn’t a bad man, and climbed into bed with Jisung. The sheets felt dirtier now, pressing down greasy all over his skin. His eyes wandered around Jisung’s room. He studied the plates and bowls of leftovers, all smeared haphazardly, some visibly molding over and others with strange pools or streaks of white. There was a window, with blinds perpetually down so only the faintest sunlight leaked in around the edges. It must have been around noon. Minho glanced at the tv stand, right at the foot of Jisung’s bed. One of his old xbox controllers was still resting atop the bed, the left side of it all red and brown. Jisung must have played it recently.

“Hold me.”

Jisung arranged Minho’s arms around him just right. They were sturdy, holding him secure even though Minho’s hands were balled up in tense little fists. Minho. His perfect Minho. Jisung pressed his hips back against the elder and nuzzled into his pillow. He had never been happier in his life, and he quickly drifted off to sleep.

Minho watched the clock under Jisung’s tv. Jisung was getting sweaty in his arms, but whenever he tried to pull away the younger would whine and move closer again. He ran his finger around a bite mark on Jisung’s shoulder, tracing the ridges of his teeth.

“Jisung,” he murmured once an hour had passed and he was starting to get hungry. Jisung just gave him another disgruntled whine so he tried again, “Jisung, we should shower.” Jisung groaned and clung to Minho’s arms. The elder sighed. “Baby.”

Jisung woke up instantly and kissed him on the lips, smiling. Minho’s stomach turned.

“How did you sleep?” Minho couldn’t make eye contact with Jisung this close up,

“Good. We should shower. It’s almost one, I can make us lunch.”

Jisung smiled. His eyes rolled a little. Minho was so sweet. He always loved when Minho cooked for him. Jisung couldn’t remember when Minho moved in, but he hoped the older man had been with him forever. He nuzzled into Minho’s neck, kissing and sucking gently on the rough flesh.

“Did you hear me?”

“Mm-hm.”

“We gotta get up.” 

“Carry me.” A chill ran down Jisung’s body, so he leaned into Minho. So strong. Perfect.

By this point, Minho had realized he wasn’t getting anywhere, so he picked up Jisung’s sweaty body and brought him into the bathroom. Jisung had his own bathroom, right off of his bedroom. Minho didn’t even want to think about the pubes on the floor or weird stains in the sink. He set Jisung down on the toilet gently before flipping on the shower and the lights.

Jisung looked disconcertingly pale. In the bright lights, Minho could see the shine on his forehead and the way his eyes fluttered shut. He swayed a little on the toilet.

“Jisung, you need to go to the hospital.” The younger’s eyes snapped open. 

“Sshh.” He walked across the bathroom, a little wobbly, and wrapped his arms around the back of Minho’s neck. “Shower,” Jisung murmured and latched onto Minho’s neck like a leech.

Jisung was still sucking on Minho’s throat when the two boys stepped into the shower. Minho tried to coax him off with gentle words and touches, but Jisung refused. He pressed his lips against every inch of Minho’s neck and sucked until he was red and purple, and Minho couldn’t deny that it felt good. He resigned to washing off the younger man himself, awkwardly maneuvering both of their bodies in the shower and massaging Jisung’s shitty axe body wash into his skin. Minho watched the dried blood run off of Jisung’s body and spiral orange down the sink.

Minho was delicious. Jisung could still taste his sweat on his throat, and he sucked until he forgot what he was doing, and then remembered, and then forgot again. He moved slowly down the elder’s body, kissing his chest and teasing out the stray hairs still growing in, moving down to his perfect little nipples and the soft stomach Jisung could press his face against for hours.

“Jisung...”

“Sshhh.” Jisung sunk to his knees, a little shaky but managing to pull it off. He let his eyes rest on Minho’s cock. Perfect. Longer than his, but only barely, and a little thinner. Minho’s cock was pink around the head, his pubic hair trimmed and his balls perfect and soft and round. Jisung drank up the sight, holding Minho’s cock experimentally in one hand and letting his tongue travel over the head. Perfect, salty and sweet and perfect. Jisung did it again so he wouldn’t forget the taste, before wrapping his lips around Minho’s length and slowly sucking him into his mouth.

Minho stared down at Jisung. The younger’s hands rested on his hips, the left one now entirely black in some areas. Jisung was sucking him off voraciously, letting out a moan when Minho even tentatively brushed his fingers through his hair.

“Jisung,” Minho groaned softly when he felt his cock hit the back of Jisung’s throat, but this time it was a groan of pleasure, not confusion. Jisung pulled off momentarily, and he looked pretty. His small forehead wrinkled when he turned his eyes up to Minho, squinting to keep the water out,

“You can pull my hair if you want,” Jisung gave the head of Minho’s penis another little lick, “I like it rough.”

Minho was still tentative at first, so he only pushed lightly. Even that did something to him. Jisung was so obedient, letting his mouth hang open and taking Minho’s cock as far back as he could. So Minho pushed his head down again, a little harder, his fingers twisting in the younger's hair. Jisung hummed around his length, gagging when Minho hit the back of his throat and letting drool spill out the sides of his mouth. Minho grabbed Jisung’s hair in his fist and fucked into his throat, taking his time with it, feeling how Jsung’s throat would contract around him trying to push him out. The younger’s throat felt good, firm and hot, so Minho leaned his head back against the shower tiles and closed his eyes, fucking Jisung’s open mouth and ignoring the way he gagged and drooled onto the floor.

Minho minho minho. Jisung savored every centimeter of the elder’s dick in his mouth, filling him up, stopping his breath so spots filled his vision. Jisung didn’t even care when he threw up in his mouth a little, he knew Minho was feeling good and that’s what mattered. He was perfect for him.

Jisung let Minho hold his head down and cum into his mouth, trying to soak up the feeling of it sliding down his throat. Perfect. He climbed his way back up Minho’s body, trailing kisses as he went, and let the elder maneuver him out of the shower.

Minho had to help Jisung climb into his clothes. He had to support him down the stairs, set him gently in the chair. He didn’t know what to make for lunch, so he rooted through Jisung’s cabinet.

“Ramen?” Jisung called, his head resting on his folded arms atop the table.

“Yeah. Ramen.”

“Fancy.”

Jisung loved watching Minho cook. He wasn’t sure which meal he was making, but it smelled good. Familiar. Jisung stared unabashedly at Minho’s soft ass, or that sweet muscular triangle connecting his neck to his shoulders. Minho had the perfect body. Jisung even noticed the way Minho’s ears bulged out a little at the sides. Cute. Sooner than he had expected, Minho set a bowl of ramen down in front of him, and Jisung smiled,

“Ramen.” His favorite.

“Yeah.”

Minho watched Jisung from across the table. The younger looked feeble, his injured hand resting in his lap while he shoveled ramen into his mouth. It got all over his face, but Jisung looked too happy to wipe it away. He wouldn’t stop looking up at Minho and smiling expectantly. Minho got a mouthful of noodles for himself, sucking it back quickly. He was hungry, but something heavy in the pit of his stomach stopped him from enjoying the taste. Jisung looked so sick. He needed to go to the hospital.

“Jisung,” Minho wiped his face with a napkin, “I think after lunch I should take you to the hospital.” Jisung was silent. His face fell. Minho ate a little more, then spoke again, “Did you hear me?”

“...yes.”

Jisung and Minho finished their meals in a tense silence, after which Jisung sat perfectly still and hung his head. Minho stacked their bowls. He looked at Jisung, but Jisung didn’t look back.

“Come on, let’s go.” Jisung pushed his feet together under his chair,

“I don't want to.” 

“Jisung...” The younger shook his head,

“I’m not going. I don't want to.”

“It doesn’t matter if you want to or not. You’re sick. You have to go.” Jisung just shook his head. Minho tried not to get frustrated. He pushed his seat back and stood up, approaching Jisung from the side of the table. “It’ll be okay. It’ll just be a quick visit, I’ll be there the whole time.”

“No.”

“Jisung.” Minho gently put his hand on the back of Jisung’s head, smoothing down his hair, and everything in the younger man bristled.

“They’re gonna take me away from you. Just give me one more night please we can go in the morning.” Minho sighed and looped his arms under Jisung’s own, lifting him out of his chair.

Jisung panicked. He twisted in Minho’s arms, kicking and shouting. “No, Minho, nonononoonono.” Minho tried to hold him still, dragging him towards the door, and Jisung dug his heels into the ground. “Stop Minho! You can’t make me! I’m not going!” Minho dragged him all the way to the doorstep, grabbing his keys on the way. Jisung bit the elder’s hand. He was sobbing, but Minho didn’t stop. He just cursed under his breath, and reached for the doorknob. “LET ME GO!” Jisung shrieked, twisting and jamming his elbow in Minho’s eye. 

Finally, Minho’s grip loosened, and Jisung broke free from him. He sprinted up the stairs and to his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

Minho didn’t know what to do. He knew Jisung was close to death, and he pulled his phone out of his pocket, even going so far as to dial 911. His finger hovered over the call button. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t press the fucking button. What the fuck was wrong with him?

In his room, Jisung flattened his back against the door and sobbed. He sobbed loud and long until his breathing hitched and his stomach ached from sobbing. Minho. His perfect Minho. Why was he doing this? Why wouldn’t he just let him stay? He knew they’d take Minho away from him. Even if he got to go back home, Minho wouldn’t be able to stay there anymore. He’d never see him again. He’d never hold him again, and he finally got so close. Why wasn’t he good enough? Why couldn’t Minho see that a life without him wasn’t worth living, wasn’t a life at all?

Jisung sobbed and dug his fingers into his palm and tore and tore and tore.

After a moment of shocked silence, Minho couldn’t even tell how long, he started to hear noises from upstairs. Banging on the floor. Jisung was upset. Of course he was. Minho tried to breathe, and it was shaky, but he managed it. He lifted his head from his hands and slowly plodded his way upstairs.

“Jisung...” he tapped on the door gently. Jisung let out a wordless sob, so Minho continued, “Can I come in? I...I just want to see you. We don't have to go tonight. We can go in the morning.” Jisung was sobbing and pounding on the floor again. Minho leaned his head against the door, “Please Jisung. Let me come hold you. Just for a little while, before we have to go.”

The door creaked open an inch, just enough for Minho to push it the rest of the way and see inside. Jisung was on the floor, kneeling. His left thigh was covered in blood, the hand he had burned however many days ago was now mangled beyond belief, flesh stripped from the palm to the wrist, the black parts crumbling and long red scratches marking the length of his arm. Jisung was shaking, his eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in an ugly silent cry. His face was covered in blood.

“Jisung...” Minho stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. He approached slowly and sunk down to Jisung’s eye level. The younger collapsed into his arms, sobs given voice again as he buried his face in Minho’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” Minho rubbed his back, “We’ll wait for the morning Jisung, it’s okay. I’m here.” Jisung tried to hold Minho back. He couldn’t feel him very well with his injured hand, but the other one clutched desperately at the elder’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” he murmured between sniffles, “Can we go to bed?”

Minho figured it wouldn’t be too hard to convince Jisung it was morning again. He didn’t even know it was lunchtime earlier. He just had to get him in bed and sleeping for a few minutes, even shorter if he could manage it. Anything to get Jisung out the door.

“Yeah. Let’s go to bed.” So Minho stooped down and helped Jisung up off of the floor. He half-walked-half-carried him to the bed and helped him climb under the covers, kicking off his shoes and joining the younger boy. Jisung was still crying a little. He shook, curling his body into Minho’s and gently pressing his face into his t-shirt.

“Stomach hurts,” Jisung murmured, so Minho put his hand on the younger’s belly and tried to coax him asleep. The two kissed, Jisung’s blood coating both of their lips again. And then Minho kept kissing him. He didn’t know why, something about the taste of Jisung’s blood was clouding his reason again. Minho left kisses all over Jisung’s face, clearing away the blood. He kissed down Jisung’s neck and took in his quiet whimpers and smile. Minho ran his hands over Jisung’s t-shirt and ducked under the covers for a moment to kiss Jisung’s soft stomach.

Jisung was overjoyed. He arched his back and curled his toes, stretching and pulling his t-shirt off over his head. Minho’s kisses felt so nice on his stomach, like the only thing steadying him from the waves of nausea. He’d never felt sicker in his life. His heart had been beating strangely, his breathing speeding up. He felt a little like he was floating, a little like he was choking, and a little like he was being stabbed in the stomach with a rusty saw.

Minho kept kissing him, up his chest and to his lips. He wrapped his arms around Jisung and gave him a half-uncomfortable smile. “Just sleep. It’s okay. We’ll go in the morning.”

Jisung’s chest was hurting. Did it always hurt like this? He smiled back at Minho, his Minho, and wiggled down into the covers. His body felt like ice, but Minho was warm. Perfect. Jisung closed his eyes and tried to imagine the waves of nausea were rocking him to sleep.

It wasn’t shocking that Jisung threw up. He was obviously sick, it made sense, Minho could have predicted it. What was shocking, though, was the way he threw up. Jisung shuddered, whined, and spilled vomit lazily from the side of his mouth. It pooled out around him, smearing in his face, but Jisung didn’t even seem to acknowledge it.

“Jisung?” The younger was already breathing fast when he started panicking. His eyes widened, his mouth dropping open in an expression Minho couldn’t understand. “Jisung?” Vomit was still pooling in the younger’s cheek. It spilled out a little when Minho pulled Jisung by the shoulders so he could look at him. Jisung’s eyes were wide open, his chest heaving in one panicked gasp before the air went out of his lungs. A sad trickle of wind.

“Jisung?” Minho knew what was happening. Jisung wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t breathing. He knew what this was. He knew what this was.

“Oh fuck.”

These were the only words Minho could seem to utter. He picked Jisung up, and the younger’s limbs draped and swayed loosely. “Fuck.” Jisung’s eyes were still open, and Minho could feel his vomit soaking into his shirt when he slung the younger over his shoulder.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Minho rushed down the stairs, nearly slipping on the carpet. Jisung felt so much heavier like this. Somewhere around the third step, his bladder released and soaked into his underwear.

“Oh god.” Minho dropped Jisung on the ground, propping him up just well enough to not feel guilty about it. His keys. He needed his keys. Where were his fucking keys god why did he lose them now? Minho combed the couch, and the area all around the door. Jisung was wheezing, but not like a person. Like air being pressed out of a balloon.

Minho cursed under his breath. His phone vibrated. He was getting a phone call. Fuck fuck fuck. He let it vibrate, pushing remotes off of the coffee table and scanning the counter top. His phone vibrated again.

1 Message: 

We’re right around the corner! We called Jisung, but wanted to let you know we’d

be coming back soon! Hope u boys didn’t make too much of a mess~

Minho looked towards the door again. His keys. They had been in the corner, hidden under a coat stand just large enough to obscure them. Minho stared at them. Fuck fuck fuck. Jisung’s skin sagged. Jisung was 19.

Outside, the garage door opened. It was loud. He always forgot how loud it was. It was so fucking loud. Minho breathed fast. His eyes darted around the room. He was sweating.

Minho moved fast, always fast, like they taught him in culinary school. He grabbed the largest knife he could from the knife block and drew it across his throat.

The garage door finished opening, and began its long journey back down. A car door slammed. The horn squeaked.

Han Jisung’s parents returned home to the smell of rotting food and two boys stiffening on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Woo you did it! Come say hi, I don't bite.  
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> 
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